


I Can Handle Anything

by Fudgyokra



Category: Teen Titans - All Media Types, Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hotel Sex, Humor, Intersex Omegas, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-29 12:36:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19830373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: Near the end of Roy’s heat, he and Dick receive an unexpected and (mostly) unwelcome visitor.





	I Can Handle Anything

**Author's Note:**

> I was totally goaded into writing this sequel to [Baby, Don't Be Gentle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672340)…not that it took much to convince me. >w> You don't really have to read that one to understand this one, but it helps.
> 
> Chose not to show warnings because tbh this skirts the line of dub-con and non-con.
> 
> Title, once again, from Jesse McCartney’s “Right Where You Want Me.”

Quite a lot of the time, Roy wonders if he’d been cursed as a baby. It would be the easiest way to explain his consistent bouts of bad luck, like the one he was having now, which began several minutes ago at the inconvenient loss of his and Dick’s last condom.

With Roy on the last legs of his heat, he’s far more coherent than he’d been at the beginning, meaning that he’s able to be more specific about his needs. He is apparently quite bossy, not to mention moody, Dick had joked, earning a pillow to the face as a response. He has since hopped down to the nearest convenience store for necessary supplies, and in the brief time he’d been gone, Roy finds himself being shaken from his nap by a large hand. One that definitely doesn’t belong to Dick.

His eyes shoot open, only to narrow at the familiar face of an old enemy. “And the bad luck continues,” he mutters the moment Slade goddamn Wilson removes his hand from Roy’s mouth. “You’re a piece of work. You could have _knocked_ like a normal person.”

One corner of the man’s mouth quirks up, and before Roy can shove away the intrusive mental image of that mouth wrapped around his cock, Slade says, “Having trouble, eh, kid?”

“No shit.” It seems valuing his life came second to mouthing off. “How the hell did you find me?”

Slade makes a sound Roy’s afraid to call a chuckle, because the idea of Deathstroke the Terminator laughing at either his attitude or his compunctious face after the fact makes him a little nervous. Plus, the deep timbre of it gives him an unfortunate dose of arousal, obvious in the accidental keen that sticks in his throat, to say little of the obvious scent he must be giving off.

Abruptly, Slade’s nostrils flare, and, yep, Roy can tell his unlucky gene is on a roll today, because the next thing he knows there’s a hand wrapped around his throat, and the only thing he can manage is a weak spasm of his legs. Heaven knows whether they’d intended a defensive kick or an inviting spread, but he tries not to think about that.

“Funny,” Slade says, and Roy wants to deck him for thinking anyof this is humorous, “I came looking for your friend. Finding you… Well, that was just a stroke of luck.”

The worst thing about Slade, barring the obvious indiscretions, is that he’s irritatingly attractive. Even past the warning bells blaring in Roy’s head, all he thinks for several seconds too long is the strength of the hand that pins him down, and the roll of the words the man on top of him speaks.

A wave of alpha pheromones hits him all at once, and he can tell it's on purpose; unlike Dick, Slade clearly has had the advantage of years of practice when it came to concealing his reactions to an omega’s scent, as well as releasing his own in concentrated bursts specifically meant to drive every one of them in a certain radius nuts.

Sadly, Roy thinks, it works. Very well. Despite the fact he scowls and reaches up to claw at Slade’s hand with both of his own, he’s not fighting half as hard as he could, and he’s sure the other man knows. If he didn’t before, he certainly does when he yanks back the covers to expose Roy's damning erection and the wet spot beneath his very naked form. Screw Dick for convincing him not to get dressed.

“Tell me where he is, and I might go easy on you,” Slade says, seconds before spreading Roy’s lower lips with his index and ring fingers and rubbing between them with his middle. The contact makes Roy’s hips shoot off the mattress, and if it weren’t for the hand on his throat tightening, his gasp might have come out as something other than the pathetic gurgle he actually makes. His fingers try and fail to pry Slade’s from his neck; his legs still don’t cooperate with his mental commands to _kick, damn it,_ and instead continue to shudder at the onslaught of touches and scent Slade is lavishing him with.

Intelligently, Roy grits out, “Fuck yourself,” which seems to be precisely the answer Slade was hoping for, given the way his smirk becomes a full-blown grin. He watches the tip of Slade’s tongue dart across alarmingly sharp canines and feels the wet patch on the sheets grow as his body betrays him with its positive reaction.

The man boxes him in with large thighs on either side of Roy’s own, leaning over him with a wicked look that should scare him—and, to a degree, _does—_ but ends up dragging a defeated whine from him instead. His eyes are barely open by the time Slade catches his mouth in a bruising kiss, the hand on his throat lifting to grasp at his chin, pulling him against each languid movement with a kind of penchant to control and conquer that doesn’t go unnoticed by Roy’s traitorous anatomy.

Just when he thinks he can’t be any more of an idiot by letting this go on, Slade hooks all three of the fingers he had used to tease him into his cunt, sliding in easily but presenting a faint stretch nonetheless. It’s enough to bring tears to his eyes with how badly he wants it. He can’t tell if his opprobrious conduct or the sound of the door opening scares him more, but either way his heart feels like it stops mid-beat in his chest.

Before he can begin struggling, or at least pretending to, there’s a gun to his temple, and he hears the safety click off in a way that jump-starts his poor heart to a frantic pace. "Christ! Get your fuckin—" His words come to a halt when Slade’s fingers, large and rough, jab repeatedly against a place inside him that makes him jolt and twist with every strike. His mouth hangs open, the ghosts of insults lingering between his parted lips while he pants and writhes right in front of Dick.

He barely has time to make a sound of dissent before Dick drops his bag to the ground and advances, fists curled and hackles raised for a fight Roy knows, despite his respect and admiration for his teammate, that Slade is bound to win. The idea of the two of them sparring right here in the hotel room, alpha-to-alpha, with all the appropriate snarls and snapping of teeth, shouldn’t prickle his skin with goosebumps, but it does. His first instinct is to submit in hopes of cutting the tension, but he smothers the thought as deep as it’ll go and tries for a snarl of his own, which goes largely ignored in the midst of the staring match Dick’s arrival has initiated.

Though Roy has an inkling of hope that Slade will rise and fight, he maintains his position hovering over him, fingering him apart with such brutal accuracy that the terror of unleashing all the sounds jammed behind his teeth weighs down on him in the silence. “Dick,” he starts, and, sure enough, the squeak in his voice makes them both look at him with a kind of hunger that reminds him of his annoyingly bad luck. "Do me a favor and—" he pauses to grunt when Slade’s thumb swipes messily between his lips, tries to ignore the subsequent sparks of pleasure the best he can to continue—“get this freak offa me.”

Slade’s chuckle is bad news, but _feels_ like good news to the ever-increasing slickness that grips the fingers inside him tight. Roy hates to admit it, even to himself, but he doesn’t think he’s ever been this wet in his life.

When Dick charges, Slade grabs him by the back of the neck and forces him in a bend over the bed, his shoulders pushed into the covers inches away from Roy’s head. In the same second, he retracts his fingers and slips them past Dick’s parted lips, and both of them watch his pupils blow with a slightly muffled noise that doesn’t sound as shocked as Roy guesses Dick was going for. They’re close enough that he can feel the puffs of breath Dick gives around Slade’s fingers against his jaw, and the sweet smell of mint and his own slick makes him squirm.

He doesn’t think before he lurches into a messy kiss, which is the final nail in the coffin that rests his poor ego in the ground. It’s more of an exaggerated attempt to lick at Dick’s lips in between Slade’s fingers, and the rumbling above him proves that it’s affecting Slade much in the same way it’s affecting Dick, going by the tiny, trapped growl he gives.

When the fingers leave, it’s Dick who drags him in for a proper kiss, leaving Roy so dizzy he barely hears the sound of Slade’s zipper coming down.

Dick growls again, this one entirely different from the last. He backs away at the sudden loss of the hand on his neck and whips his head around to glare at Slade, who takes the possessive behavior with a certain kind of grace and merely grins like it amuses him. “Don’t worry. I’m not interested in mating him. He’s all yours after I’m done with him.”

At that, Dick rises again like he’s going to fight, teeth bared for the threat of gnashing, but Slade only leans in close and growls. It’s a deep, authoritative rumble, and the force behind it makes Roy’s legs quiver and Dick’s nostrils flare in turn.

“Down, boy."

Astonishingly, Dick hits the mattress on his elbows, nosing into the crook of Roy’s neck with a narrow-eyed glare aimed down at Slade. Roy wonders if Dick’s penchant for jumping at orders is only reserved for attractive older men, but the thought gets thrown by the wayside at the sudden stretch of Slade’s cock breaching him, sliding in with a smooth glide and hardly any resistance. By the time Roy realizes his mouth is hanging open, he’s already seeing stars.

For starters, it’s much bigger than anything Roy’s had before, and by sheer virtue of size alone, he may very well be reduced to drooling on his pillowcase. He hopes he doesn’t, but he’s still unlucky and has plenty of time to fall down that particular rabbit hole.

Right away, Slade fucks him like he owns him, each thrust roughly sheathing the full length of him, dragging shouts from Roy that are so high-pitched he’s afraid they’re cresting over into shrieks. God forbid someone call the police on them for disturbing the peace or something.

That quickly becomes the furthest thing from his mind with the way Slade’s bearing down on him, hands sliding under his hips and pulling him down onto his cock until Roy aches with it, and he grits out a watery “Wait...” It gets Dick purring comfortingly against his scent gland, which is the opposite of what he needs, because the jarring rumble against sensitive skin tips him over the edge, and he throws his head back, crying out as he cums, spasming around Slade’s cock.

When he drops his arch and goes limp, Slade pulls out, every impressive inch of him shiny with Roy’s slick. Dick’s eyes, the pupils huge and dark, are trained on it in a way that, had Roy been in a coherent state of mind, he would have called _hungry._ For a moment, Dick’s eyes flicker between that and Slade’s face, as if considering the probability of getting his mouth around it, but Slade makes the call by hooking a finger into Roy’s cunt and demanding that Dick _come get it,_ and by then nothing about this makes sense, but he’s too riled up to care.

The fact Dick obeys is nothing short of a miracle, and the familiar anxious speed with which he rolls on a condom and settles between Roy’s legs earns him an appreciative purr, growing louder as he's entered again.

Dick's breath hitches, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as Slade moves behind him. Abruptly, he gets shoved down, fingers curling around Roy’s shoulders. Roy watches every little flicker of emotion pass across his friend's face as Slade pushes into him, using Roy’s slick to guide the way. Everything about it seems filthy and just the right kind of wrong, especially when Dick’s mouth drops open around a breathy moan, which spills right into the scant distance between Roy’s face and his own.

Slade doesn’t take it easy on Dick either, not adjusting for the lack of biological assistance or waiting for him to loosen up from where he’s pressed flat against Roy’s chest. None of that stops his eyelids from fluttering, though, and Roy thinks the metaphorical pissing contest between the two of them suddenly makes a lot more sense when Dick breathes Slade’s name in a half-panted plea.

He arches, and the new angle puts a burst of stars in Roy's vision that get him gritting his teeth. He’s still sensitive from the last orgasm, but it feels too good to have Dick plunging in and out of him, hot and familiar, with a new brand of animalistic roughness lent to him by Slade’s intense thrusts.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this is a terrible idea. He just can’t bring himself to care when he’s screaming himself hoarse at every movement. Dick eventually begins rumbling soothingly, and he can feel the slide of a hot tongue against the shell of his ear while he does it, the sound peppered by little grunts of his own that only increase in volume the closer he gets to finishing.

Roy can feel the knot swell against him, the shudder of his own thighs as he flexes his hips and tries to take it as deeply as he can, eyes rolling back when Dick bites his earlobe and growls. Sharp nails scratch angry red marks down Roy’s chest when Dick's hips stutter away from Slade’s patterned movements. It only takes a second of quick, desperate pistoning for Roy to feel it: the intense pressure and stretch of a hard knot shoving its way inside him, putting a strangely satisfying ache in his belly and subsequently forcing another orgasm from him within seconds.

He can feel his walls fluttering around the intrusion, greedily begging for more. Although Dick remains slumped against him, panting and pink-faced, Slade is still moving, his own growls sending aftershocks through Roy’s system in the form of little tremors, which Dick obviously feels, because he keens against the side of his neck.

“I hope you don’t think you’re already through,” Slade goads, and this time Dick’s growl is a warning—a sure sign of a fight brewing on the surface; the kind that Dick likes, and Roy wonders if it’ll end up in the bed once it’s done. He wonders if he might be able to squeeze his way in without getting shredded in the process. He wonders, in a testament to all his wondering, if he’d necessarily _mind._

The overstimulation is starting to get to both of them. He can feel the fullness seated in him rock, nudging the sensitive walls of his fucked-out cunt until his fingers are twisting in the sheets from the strain. It still feels heavenly, too good to keep him still, but all of his squirming moves Dick, whose hips are propped up in a presenting arch, held there forcefully by Slade’s hands as he uses him to his own satisfaction. The strangest thing is that Dick looks similarly unconcerned with the treatment, aside from the odd weak growl, as if insisting he’s not quite on board but is not annoyed enough to put a stop to it.

But then Slade yanks his head back by the hair and starts jack-hammering into him, and the calm satisfaction in both of them spikes into desire so quickly Roy can’t even hear his own frantic begging past Dick’s cries.

He tries, anyway: “Wait, wait, god I’m gonna—” and he wants to say _not again, Jesus, too much, too much—_ but what comes out instead is a short, tight whine before another orgasm is shocked out of him, this time dry but no less taxing as he convulses around Dick’s knot, still firm and present and _so,_ so thick.

It almost hurts, but the comedown is worth it, because when Slade finishes, Roy feels nothing but pinpricks of pleasure from the overuse spread all the way down to his toes. Pairing nicely with it is the view of Dick gasping out pleas and obscenities in equal measure, and Slade’s smug face hovering right behind as he bites into Dick’s shoulder, hard. It’s not quite high enough to be a claiming bite, but the gesture is there all the same, and Roy’s instinct mandates that he hiss before he can even think of the implications.

While Slade chuckles around his mouthful of flesh, a sharp snap of his hips and a downright obscene, filthy moan from Dick indicate to Roy that he’s seated firmly on the man’s knot, preventing movement for the next little while they’ve got to endure his obnoxiously handsome presence.

His eyelids feel heavy, but he tries for a glare anyway. “Keep your goddamn teeth to yourself,” he demands, and Slade barks out a surprised-sounding laugh as Dick squirms and blushes furiously beneath him.

“We’ll see if I do next round.”

A weak chorus of moans is the only response.


End file.
